


After the Storm

by orphan_account



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the return from the Omega-4 Relay, work piles up more than ever for the Professor as he has to address the medical needs of a very injured crew. However, not all crewmen are just going to sit silently around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storm

The troubles the Collectors caused had not ended for him, unfortunately, even after they had blown their base and abomination sky-high. Almost two-thirds of the crew had ended up with severe burns or internal bleeding from their encasement in Reaper cocoons, not to mention the amount of PTSD each carried from the traumatic ordeal. Dr. Chakwas certainly wouldn’t have been enough to address all their needs, especially since having suffered the same things they had.

In hindsight, it was a good idea that Shepard had sent him to escort the team back to the Normandy. Wiser to get them treated as soon as possible. But it had been two days since they left the Omega-4 Relay and since then not once had he stepped out of the Medical Bay. At this rate, he might as well turn it into his new workplace.

“Professor? Lunch.”

Mordin hardly looked up. That had marked the entrance of his seventh meal, being delivered to him these days for the unending queue of patients that needed medical attention. Dietary needs were always a prospect he liked to address, but right now he busied himself using a stethoscope-like tool on the back of an unconscious patient lying on his side. The patient that had just undergone extensive lung reconstruction the day before, and so far, chances of recovery were high. However, Mordin was salarian. He preferred to make checking his work a priority.

The crew member, like most of the Normandy, had started getting a better read of his preferences by now, and meekly deposited the tray where he could easily find it later. He seemed on his way out to allow him to get back to work, but halfway there, he paused. “Professor Solus? Can I talk with you when you have a moment?”

“Lungs sound fine. Additional surgery unnecessary. Very good.” The human jumped, at first, then calmed down realizing it was just the Professor’s usual rambling. Mordin’s stethoscope retreated into his omni-tool and he looked up. The first thing he noticed was the food tray. “ _Even better._ Shawarmas. My favourite. Take that moment now, if you wish.”

For a while it seemed the man was too flabbergasted to take up the offer, for Mordin had already finished his second shawarma by the time he organized into words the things he had been planning to say.

“You know, the moment I saw you, I didn’t like you at all,” he blurted. “Didn’t like the others either. No sense in getting any of you to butt into our business. Even complained to Ms. Lilium. She’s, ah, the one who arranged Shepard’s dossiers on you… you aliens.”

Certainly this would have struck any sensible being as exceptionally racist and derogatory, but never once had Mordin forgotten that he was on a Cerberus vessel. He simply kept silent and started on his third shawarma.

 “And _then,”_ the man exclaimed, the words coming out in spurts. His volume began rising, breathlessly, as if he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth himself, “when shit goes down like what happened at… at that Collector _hellhole…_ You bust us out and save the day.”

“Had others fighting with me. Shepard’s mission,” Mordin reminded. He breathed in, vivid memories stirring as far back to his time serving under Kirrahe. “Merely followed orders.”

The man looked at Mordin. Then he turned towards his fellow soldiers scattered around the room, beaten and moaning but glad to be alive to fight another day. He shook his head wonderingly.

“Yeah, I guess. But even still… I’m starting to think you make a better man than all of us. We… _I_ shouldn’t have treated you like anything less. So I’m going to say what I should have said ages ago – back when the Commander first brought you along for the ride.”

He stiffened up and brought a hand to his forehead. This surprised Mordin. It was not any ordinary honorary salute – it was the full heel-face turn of a once fanatical Cerberus believer, leaving detachment for understanding.

“Welcome to the Normandy, Professor Solus. Good to have you aboard.”  

Mordin smiled and picked up his fifth shawarma. “Well. Have gotten used to receiving gratitude due to a medical profession. Must say that this comes as… a pleasant surprise. Glad to be aboard, Sergeant Ribus.”

The man smiled back and relaxed, lowering his hand. “I wasn’t aware you knew who I was. Some of Shepard’s other alien—I mean, some of her squad members always get us confused.”

“Did background checks on all of you,” Mordin replied, wiping his fingers in the napkin provided. He tossed it in the bin and started towards yet another patient. “Separated potential co-workers that seemed more likely to stab me in the back during course of mission…” He paused, noticing the sergeant started to tense. “You were one of them. Perhaps an apology…?”

“No, you were right,” eventually sighed the man. “I’m glad we talked, Professor. I won’t keep you anymore. If there’s anything else you need…”

“… I’ll be sure to inform you,” Mordin concluded. He picked up a datapad and started reading the patient’s vital signs. He was back in his element, and suddenly everything unrelated around him started taking on a lesser importance.  “I will. Thank you for lunch.”

Sergeant Ribus smiled, nodded, and politely left the Med Bay.

There was something to be said about the salarian lifespan. Since they had only a short time to live, many of them disliked being limited to one space for extended periods of time. Being stuck on a ship for more than a few months – now that was enough to drive an average salarian crazy.

But a small, cheerful hum started up his throat, bringing surprised looks to his more miserable patients and eventually sending them grinning. Strangely enough, Mordin felt better than ever. Maybe because he was already crazy (according to Garrus), but the Normandy never failed to provide tools to work with, situations to study, commanding officer’s disagreements to fight through, and, more recently, good company to get along with. By now it felt homey, to say the least.

At the end of the day, Mordin was glad to have served on the Normandy. He couldn’t wait to do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an introduction to a Mordin RP blog, but then it got out of hand and it looked too meaty for a micro-blogging site. Decided it would fit better in a fanfic archive, so here it is. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
